I know I promised you a conclusion to last week’s post about busyness, but the summer solstice inspired me to write about a different topic this week. The post on taming your schedule is already written and will be ready for you next week as promised.

Summer solstice was this past weekend.

And the longest day of the year has me thinking.

Strangely, it has me thinking about the long, cold nights of winter.

It has me thinking about hardship.

In the heat of a Texas summer, it may be hard to recall the coldness of winter.

But it will be there, like clockwork, waiting for us in just a few short months.

Making sense of hardship

How do we make sense of hardship?

Sometimes we can make sense of our pain.

We know where it comes from.

We know why it’s there.

Even if we resent it, avoid it, or wish it gone.

Sometimes the pain makes sense.

And sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes it is there in spite of our efforts.

In spite of reason.

In spite of all the goodness and blessings in our lives.

In spite of medication.

In spite of therapy.

It sits, defiant, a wrinkle in our lives that will not smooth over, will not mend.

And we may not be able to make sense of it even after it has gone.

The best we may be able to do is to say,

“I don’t fully understand it,

but that was then.

And it’s over now.”

That offers little comfort when we’re still sitting, hunched under the weight of those impossible, dark feelings.

Sometimes all hardship can do is show us how much we can bear.

And the notion of that lesson can make us angry and resentful.

Because we’d rather the proof be theoretical,

the strength of our hearts never fully tested,

our mettle never pummeled under the weight of life’s hammer.

“It’s fine,” we may think to ourselves,

“I give myself the benefit of the doubt.

Let my limits never be tested.

Let my strength remain in question.”

But sometimes we are pummeled by life. And it feels senseless.

So I wanted to offer up a few ideas about how we might make sense of things.

How we might be able to make friends with our pain.

The strength and beauty of mended things

In Japan, there is a special tradition in ceramics that has to do with mending broken pieces.

It’s called kintsugi or kintsukuroi.

When a pot is broken, it is not discarded.

And the break is not painted over and concealed.

The fracture becomes a part of the pottery, often mended and filled in with a precious metal, to highlight the fracture, the history, and the beautiful imperfection of the piece.

Like this:

Maybe our pain is like that, too.

The balance of joy and sorrow

One of my favorite excerpts from Kahlil Gibran about pain:

Then a woman said,

“Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.”

And he answered:

“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.”

Maybe our pain is like that.

Letting the light in

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”  -Rumi

During the summer solstice, the lightest, brightest, longest day of the year—take a moment to remember the darkness.

Whether it’s sleeping at the foot of your bed, or a constant companion to you each day.

I hope you can find some comfort, even in the dark places.

I hope you can say yes to your pain.

And if, after reading this, you find no explanation that makes sense or offers comfort—if it still feels bleak and wasted to you, maybe it is still too soon to understand.

Just remember: you don’t have to walk the path alone.

A therapist can offer support and perspective that even the dearest friends and family cannot.

You don’t have to protect a therapist from the brunt of your feelings.

You don’t have to reassure them that it isn’t so bad, as you might do with a friend or loved one.

Would you like to know more? 

Touch base to schedule your free consultation with me.

Or go here, if you’re looking for sliding scale counseling in Austin.

If you read this seeking comfort, if you’re going through a lot right now:

I’m hoping you get to the other side of your heartache soon.

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Two years ago:  The foul weather friend

Three years ago:  Top ten ways to get the most out of your therapy hour